#paddington
There once was a bear called Marmalade.
She was a Peruvian brown bear.
She was abandoned in peru.
She was found in the only patch of desert in Peru.
She was rescued by 2 bears that found her.
In the only tornado to strike Peru in a century, her aunt perished saving her home.
In the aftermath of it, her uncle retired to the TrumpyMcTrumpface home for retired bears.
Marmalade's aunt told her to go to a place called London.
Her aunt's friend had an adopted bear there as well. They were good friends
When she got to london she went to the address that her aunt had told her.
When she went there, a weird human knocked on the door.
She called for someone called paddington.
Paddington was a bear.
When Marmalade told her story to Paddington, she was warmly welcomed into her home.
Her and Paddington fell in love and had lots of little baby cubs and lived happily ever after.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 10:24 AM UTC
the bookies of High Street North will give you odds,
1000 to 1, our paths will never cross, a simple notion,
we’ll never meet, it’s a sucker’s bet they’re happy to take,
despite, shhhhh, not that hard, truth be told, airplane,
Terminal5, Heathrow Express, Paddington Bear Station
and yet, there are oceans to fly over, viruses in
every nook and cranny, and the biggest risk, those
what ifs...and the worries viral multiply as imagining
grows more spectacular than wild flowers on the
heath, bogs conjuring up Holmesian fluorescent hounds
she’ll know for whom this poem tolls, but
will never understand that my envision of her world,
through her eyes, unfamiliar words mellifluous,
for me, they, a nectar, the special Ritz teatime,
but don’t be mistaking me for an Anglophile
no, this Yank plainly loves her garden of nature,
and her own nature, beloved as well, floral blooming,
how it grasps his heart with her two hand’s nouns,
seizing and ceasing its beating, nicks it, his rhythm for
poetic composition, so little more to add, other than
writing this made both a young boy glad, an old man sad...
postscript
someday she’ll crook her finger, like the crook
of her hair, and this Tom, will no longer be waiting
Jul 25, 2020
Jul 25, 2020 at 7:29 AM UTC
Huddled, strained, with craned necks to the board,
They wish for that missing number,
The hope they wait upon—
The launchpad to their homes.
Puzzled, drained, enraged—the muttered sounds.
They miss that sudden cue,
The rush to be the one;
That fearful scrum of drones.
Tom Lefort
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 3:21 PM UTC